When I publish, I never know what’s on the other side of tomorrow.
I never know what storm will seize up or what horrors will be unleashed from the vast pits of a fiery hell that I don’t believe in. I don’t know what childish tug-o-war will ensue over a single word or phrase that came to me in a moment of nothingness between sips of coffee. I don’t know if publishing will trigger the deafening sounds of silence or the ringing of accolades in the digital towers of majesty.
What exists on the other side of tomorrow is unwritten, unlike my words which are sitting there in measured stillness. While they are my words alone, born from my thoughts and dressed in my emotions, they will become the catalyst in a future chemical reaction between page and purpose. And, somewhere within that uncontrollable reaction, I will cease to exist. When the smoke finally clears, only a piece me will remain; the unknowable author who lies broken and alone in the sand. And all of my words will be lost to the indelible theory of chaos.
But here, in the present, I sit staring at the page. I weigh the possibilities. I create hypotheses and analyze the outcomes. Sweat pours down my brow as the moment of publication is imminent. Then I pause for one more glorious second of anticipation and push the button.
All that’s left to do now is let go.
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